


Things that could not be

by KaisaSegher



Series: Counting Scars [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, R plus L equals J, past abuse (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: He would be free, with no aunt to govern his fate. The same aunt that was trying to manage hers. Sansa would not let her. No one, lord or lady, king or queen, would tell her what to do ever again. She would take council, not orders. Never orders.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before and in-between the events of Books and Stitches. I tried to make it possibly to read this one before, after or even without reading the other one. As usual, I'll try to update everyday and make you suffer the least I can. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> PS: feel free to tell me about any mistake (spelling, continuity...), since this is un-betaed.

Her breath made a soft white cloud before her eyes. The merciless wind burnt her cheeks and she could swear her nose was about to fall to frostbite. Sansa lifted her shoulders, burying her face further down on her furs as a shiver shook every bone of hers. Ghost tried to surround her legs with his body, filling her black cloak with white fur. Jon's cloak, to be fair. She hoped he would not mind. Ghost was his, after all, no matter how much the direwolf had decided to follow her when his master was not around.

She petted Ghost's head, and for a moment she thought he had smiled to her, his tail dancing joyfully as she scratched behind his ear. That always twisted her heart, reminding her of Lady and how angry she still was about what had happened. She should have known then how cruel Cersei could be. She should have learnt not to trust someone who would willingly punish an innocent creature so she could get her revenge. And, above all, she should not have taken Joffrey's side instead of her sister's.

Her heart twisted again. Where was Arya? They had told her she was most likely dead, after Joffrey had asked for their father’s head, or on the road at the hands of Lannisters' men. But Sansa knew deep in her bones that was not true. She knew them. She knew their enemies too well to believe that, if Arya was indeed dead, they would not have missed that opportunity to spread the word of yet another victory over the “traitors” to the seven corners of the realm. That no one had given any detail about her sister’s fate warmed her heart.

Sansa had been taught by heavy fists and hard boots not to hope. Not to expect that everything would eventually end well as it did on most stories she had been told as a child. Or at least the ones she cared to listen. However, she had learnt how to take control of as much small aspects of her life she could until she was able to escape and be her own mistress.

It had been Jon who conquered the balcony where she stood, but it was her who convinced him to do so.

It was more of a bargain than an argument, actually. Jon would call his men to arms and free Winterfell from the Boltons. He would give her father’s land to her, for she, not Jon, had the right family name to be Lady of Winterfell. Although Jon looked more of a Stark than Sansa, he was a bastard all the same and she was no queen to change that. Nor she desired to become one, she had told him, since it had done no good to her brother Robb. However, in return, Sansa would assure Jon and herself would be equals and that she would not take any action without discussing it with him first. He would be second to her in what Winterfell was concerned only in tittle.

Not long after the Dragon Queen had arrived on Westeros they had found out about Jon’s parentage. That the queen’s late older brother was his father but that she would not legitimize her nephew in the near future. Sansa had feared that maybe, if the rumours were true, the queen would not be able to produce an heir and name Jon as her successor in time.

Jon did not care for the Iron Throne, though, and he wished for nothing more than what Sansa had offered him. And she knew better than him that the court was nothing more than a snakes' nest, hidden behind wide white smiles and heavy rich tapestries. He would be safer in the North, although a bastard, but admired and loved by his people. He would be free, with no aunt to govern his fate.

The same aunt that was trying to manage hers.

Sansa would not let her.

No one, lord or lady, king or queen, would tell her what to do ever again. She would take council, not orders. Never orders.

Sansa let her breath out, another cloud of mist twisting in the air as she did so. Down there, in the courtyard, a dozen of Winterfell’s men had formed a circle around two others, fighting against each other with bare hands. One of them was short and wide, and reminded her of a barrel, his thick arms reaching for the other’s waist and failing. The other was taller and leaner, and although he looked at least as strong as the other, he was more agile and that was his greatest advantage. She knew Jon would eventually win that combat, and that made her loose interest.

Watching the men fighting below reminded her of the past, of a better time, when she and her lady mother would stand on that same balcony as her lord father taught Robb and Jon how to throw an arrow or thrust a wooden sword. Little Arya would throw her arms over the stone balustrade, standing on the tips of her toes and shouting orders from the top of her lungs to even smaller Bran as he tried and failed to hit his target. Rickon was mostly absent of her memories, as he was mostly absent all her life. She remembered a baby, then a toddler, hiding in her mother’s chest or behind her mother’s skirts and nothing more.

Now it was only Ghost there with Sansa. And even Ghost was an asset, compared to her later years when she could only count on herself but had to be aware of anyone around her.

Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Imp.

Tyrion, she corrected herself.

Sansa had never been fair to him, in the short time he was her husband. She had dreamt of nothing else but escaping him at the time, not aware of what awaited her afterwards. Sometimes she still thought about him, about how everything might have turned out differently if she hadn’t run away and stayed with her husband.

Littlefinger, the Eyrie, Ramsay.

At least Tyrion never hurt her. He was even kind to her, and the girl she was then never really understood that.

But then she thought about how it had all led her to where she stood now.

Jon. Winterfell.

Together, they had avenged their family, at least to some degree. The Boltons, the ones to betray Robb and her mother and to sully their home to its bones, were now an extinct house. The Dragon Queen had taken care of the ones still alive when she arrived with her ships to Westeros, although Sansa still did not know what had happened to Littlefinger. Nor did Sansa care, after she thought about it for a moment. He had paid the price for his betrayal and that was enough for her. All the others who had done her wrong were now gone and that had left her satisfied.

It was time to move on and she knew it. Sansa wanted it, but not on the terms offered, yet again, by the ones who wished to handle her like a mere puppet.

The queen had sent a letter about half a moon ago, offering friendship and protection in exchange for the North’s allegiance. That was easy enough to agree with if she had in mind the bi-continental army and three dragons that flied at its flanks.

The second part was the one that presented some difficulties.

The queen also advised Sansa to marry one of the lords of the North or one of their sons. That would strengthen the ties between every house in her territory and bring most desired stability to the North and, inherently, the Seven Kingdoms.

On that Sansa could not, and would not, agree, she decided as she tried to dig her gloved fingers in the stone of the parapet. No one would tell her what to do. Never again.

Loud cries and thunderous applause grabbed her from her thoughts and she looked down again.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa shrugged, unsurprised, as Jon held his arms up in the air and smiled, victorious. She clapped her hands, unenthusiastically, as Ghost pranced around her a little too excited, sensing his master’s triumph.

“It was a good fight,” Jon said, helping his adversary get up.

It surely was not.

Those matches were getting really dull, actually. Either because Jon was the luckiest man alive or because his opponents lost on purpose, trying to gain favour from the queen’s nephew or the lady’s most trusted man. Or because he had been trained by the best in the North and his adversaries had not.

“Let’s go, Ghost,” she called “Let’s see if your master is not too hurt.”

As they entered the great hall, Sansa found out he wasn’t, aside a small cut above is left eyebrow and a bruised lower lip. Ghost jumped to Jon’s shoulders, licking his face as if to be sure of his master’s safety. Both wounds would heal alone, though. The same would not happen to his opponent, Martyn, currently assisted by the maester.

“I do not understand why you have to do this every day,” Sansa reprimanded, throwing a wet cloth at his face. Jon caught it with his hand before it hit his face and laughed.

“Don’t you get bored in this castle, with nothing to do all day?” Jon asked in return, sitting on his chair by the fire. Sansa hanged Jon’s cloak next to the hearth and mimicked him.

“I have matters to attend to, Jon, in case you did not know,” she puffed, adjusting her shawl around her shoulders and crossing her arms in her chest.

Jon stretched his legs, crossing them at his ankles. She was about to teach him yet another lesson on ruling a household, or on the politics of the realm, and he couldn’t care less. Sansa knew she needed only tell him what he had to do, sometimes explain him why. But after leaving the Night’s Watch, after returning home, he could not care less about the matters of the kingdom. His aunt was on the throne, there was finally peace in Westeros, the North was secure. Sansa was safe. The only thing still troubling his mind was Arya’s fate, and he believed above any theory or conspiracy that she had saved herself and was now far away from them, living her life as she pleased.

Jon knew what matters Sansa was talking about. He was aware Queen Daenerys had sent a raven, coaxing Sansa into marrying someone as soon as possible. All of Winterfell was aware, since there was not an effective way to stop rumours from spreading in the castle.

He had also noticed that, ever since, it was getting harder and harder to find his cousin alone. When she was sewing, another girl, Alys he thought she was called, was always by Sansa’s side. If Sansa went for a walk or a ride through the godswood, a guard, most of the time Cregan, always insisted on accompanying her ladyship.

For her safety, of course. Always for her safety.

Now that he thought about it, they were alone for quite some time now.

Ah, there was Jocelyn, the other girl always on Sansa’s heel, entering the hall and taking a seat just a dozen steps away from them. A little younger than her lady, maybe about Arya’s age. A pretty thing, with her perfectly round hips, long black hair and full lips.

Sansa frowned as Jon followed Jocelyn with his eyes. If she had another wet cloth she would have thrown it again to his face. Why did men always behaved like that when they saw a pretty girl? Poor Jocelyn was just doing her job, minding her own business, and certainly did not need nor wanted that sort of attention.

However, Sansa decided that she was angrier with the queen than with Jon. After all, it was the queen’s fault that nobody let her speak in private with anyone again. Especially with him.

“You can chose anyone you like,” Jon sighed, straightening up as he spoke. “Halys Holt, Sigorn Ironsmith, Daryn Burley, Gawen Ashwood, Rickard Harclay, Wilys Crowl, Artos Flint…”

“Now you’re just saying names you read on one of those books,” Sansa said, eyeing Jocelyn. The girl was quietly embroidering a big white cloth. Maybe it was a bedsheet, maybe a tablecloth, that Sansa could not see nor did she care. Jocelyn looked innocent enough but Sansa knew that she would tell anything she heard to someone else, and then someone else, until it reached the queen’s ear.

“Well, at least I’m learning your sworn houses, am I not?” Jon asked, smirking.

He was so proud of his work so far. Jon was gathering as much information he could about the houses sworn to Winterfell and joining it on a single book. He intended to use that as proof before the queen that there were a handful of houses that, although owing allegiance to House Stark, still remained with their backs turned to their lady.

Sansa’s heart filled with gladness every time she saw Jon so happy with himself. Maybe he had not lost more than her, but he surely had not gained as much as her after he left the Night’s Watch. The reminder that she could not offer him more than she already did remained a stone in her shoe.

“I know, and I am thankful for that,” she assured, grabbing his hand without really thinking about it. It was warm and strong and soft, and it made her feel secure.

Sansa felt a heatwave spreading through her neck, her chest, her face and her ears. She had decided not to wear her mask when she was with him. When she was alone with him. And that was not the case. Sansa had to be Lady Sansa every time Jocelyn, Alys, Cregan or anyone else was around. That mask had always protected her, and it should stay that way. Jon was her cousin, her bastard cousin, to whom she owed a debt as great as the North itself. That was the only reason he was at her side whenever she asked.

Jon clutched her hand and gave it a little squeeze, before letting go and running his own hand through his hair, trying to distract the three of them from that fleeting moment. He had masks of his own, and his favourite was the one that reminded him of his place. He was a bastard, it did not matter if a Stark or a Targaryen bastard. If Sansa was seen too close to him that might ruin her chances to marry who she wanted.

He would not let that happen.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa furiously turned the pages of the book before her. She knew, she was certain, that the House Hornwood family tree was somewhere amongst those pages. She recalled Bran, with that same old green covered book before his eyes reciting every lord and lady of Hornwood to Maester Luwin over and over. Her brother always stuttered on the predecessor of Lord Halys, so the maester had made him repeat it about a thousand times that afternoon. Sansa herself could recount all of them. However, she did not know by heart which Berena was mother to which Larence or sister to which Daryn.

As she grew tired of the task, and decided that agreeing to help Jon on such a tremendous assignment had been madness, Sansa closed the book with a loud thud. She got up and stretched her arms, eyeing as discreetly as possible the chair on the other side of the table.

Jon was humming softly in that deep tone that sometimes made Sansa forget that she was supposed to be reading or sewing and almost lulled her to sleep. His hands rested on the table before him, his arms tense as he lifted himself to reach for a set of papers too far away from him.

Sansa knew Jon was not particularly robust. His arms and chest were not that wide if compared to those of a blacksmith, a farmer, or even some of his brothers of the Night’s Watch. But every time she saw his muscles flex she knew he was not a bit weaker than any of them, and he proved it in every fight. And when she recalled the moment they met for the first time in years, she always remembered how solid his arms had felt around her. She had felt safe. She had felt at home.

She looked at Alys, sitting next to the window and counting stiches again, and recalled why Jon did not hug her anymore. Her heart fell to her stomach, as her veins were filled with the poisonous words she could not spill to the girl. Alys was doing what someone had told her, after all. And although Sansa had tried, more than once, to explain to her that she wanted to be alone with her cousin, that Jon was her cousin, that he had been raised like her brother, and that they needed to discuss something of great importance regarding Winterfell the girl simply answered that she could not, always looking at her feet and twisting her fingers nervously.

“So Brandon Tallhart is Lady Eddara’s great-grandfather? Sansa?”

Sansa took a little while to register that Jon had lifted his eyes from the papers splayed on the table and was speaking to her. She rolled up her sleeves, maybe to pretend that she had not answered right away because she was busy with something, maybe because the room was truly hot. Winter it might be outside those walls, but next to her the fire was more alive than ever.

“I really cannot remember,” she answered, as she reached for the bookshelf and started to roam through the infinity of tomes. Not this, nor that. This one is not either. “Ah, here it is!”

Sansa approached Jon and laid the book before him, trying to not to crush any part of his work dispersed before them. She could feel the heat of his body caressing her face, and although Sansa thought that maybe she was too close, she forced herself not to move an inch. She was doing nothing wrong, Alys had nothing to tell anyone.

Yet.

She tried to control the tremble of her fingers as they wandered through the old yellow pages.

“Here!” she squeaked, sticking her forefinger to the paper. “Thank the gods you are copying all of this, it is almost impossible to read anything here.”

Jon’s eyes followed her fingers, taking in all the new information she was providing him.

“So, after all, Eddara’s great-grandfather, Lord Helman’s grandfather, was Benfred and not Brandon,” he said, as he turned to face Sansa.

She jolted, straightening up and deciding that she was in fact too close to Jon. Sansa crossed her arms on her chest, trying to collect herself again. She was playing with fire and she knew it. Alys was right there.

“M’lady, if I may be excused,” the girl interrupted, standing up “I’m afraid I don’t have any more thread, but I assure you I’ll return in a moment.”

No.

No!

Sansa wanted to force Alys to stay right there. She could not be left alone with Jon. In fact, she was the one that needed to leave, in case he might find something he should not. Something that even Sansa’s own thoughts were not allowed to look for.

But then the girl was already gone and Jon had grabbed her hand.

“Sansa,” he started, his voice low, filled with care. “I don’t think you understand how much you are helping me.”

“Me?” Sansa screeched, trying not to focus on the warmth of his skin on hers. “Most days I just stand over there sewing skirts. I don’t think I do much, really. I never did.”

Jon stood up, and now he was holding both her hands. Sansa’s heart galloped against her ribs and she found her mouth dry as she tried to hold Jon’s gaze. Grey, she decided. His eyes were dark grey, not black, after all. Like Arya’s and her late father’s, but not quite. Maybe like aunt Lyanna’s, but that Sansa would never know.

“But you did, Sansa. And you do,” he corrected. “You may think that you had no role in rescuing Winterfell and that it I alone am trying to put things right again-“

“It is the truth,” Sansa interrupted, as she lowered her head. “I could not even save myself.”

Jon gently cupped her face, forcing her to look in his eyes. How could he be so kind to her? How, when she had offered nothing to him? When she had been much less than civil to him when they were children?

“That is a lie your head tells itself, and you know it,” he said, a little harshly. “You escaped by your own feet. That was really brave of you, and you did it all alone.”

She would not cry. Sansa had learnt to control her tears a long time ago, when they had hurt her more than what she thought she could endure. These were different tears, but she would hold them all the same.

“And you saved me too. Saved us both,” Jon continued, tenderer this time.

“Now that is a lie,” she sighed, shrugging. “I have nothing to offer you, Jon. You deserve so much more than what you have and I cannot even give you the status you have always deserved. I can never return the kindness you have given me.”

Jon shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. His perfect, full lips.

“I was a lost man, Sansa. My brothers had betrayed me, then a fanatic of some bizarre religion brought me back from the dead and I could not understand why,” he explained, stroking her cheeks with his calloused fingers. “But then you came up and it all made sense. I had a purpose. I still have.”

Sansa grabbed his wrist and brought his fingers to her lips. Her stomach twisted and untwisted itself again and again, as her head span and worked too fast. Had she gone mad?

But then she just wanted that agony to stop.

Standing on her tiptoes, she encircled his neck with her arms and lightly brushed his lips with hers, as if she really knew how it was done when she wanted it, and not because she had to.

She counted her heartbeats, for the world seemed to stop but Alys surely would not take long to be back.

One, two, three, ten.

Jon did not move.

Maybe she was mad after all. Maybe she had misunderstood it all and Jon still thought of her as his sister. She had to run away. She had to gather what dignity she had left, run away from that room and hope Jon would forget that incident as soon as possible.

Before she could tear apart her mouth from his, Jon gripped her waist and pulled her to him. He bit her lip, urging her to open her mouth and let his hot tongue slide until it found her own. Warmth and relief washed through her body, like a cascade of a hot spring draining from her hair to her shoulders, her chest and her belly until it reached her feet.

Finally.

Finally!

Sansa run her fingers through his smooth curls, as she had wished to do for far too long now. Jon’s hands gripped her hips a little too roughly, like having her that close was still not nearly enough for him.

She heard steps on the stone. One, two. Still farther than the corner on the corridor. They had some time, yet.

Five, six. They would reach the study’s door in a heartbeat.

Reluctantly and breathing heavily, Jon pushed her away, and sat back on his chair. Sansa smoothed his hair, dishevelled by her fingers, then her dress, and sat next to him, keeping a proper distance.

“That you thought of this…” Jon whispered to Sansa, as Alys entered the room and apologised for her absence.

“It had to be me, had it not?” Sansa teased, with a half-smile. Her head, resting on her fist, felt light, too light, but her chest was filled with contentment. “You could have never figured it out all by yourself.”

Jon chuckled, drawing a random paper from a pile at his left and pretending to read it. Sansa hoped Alys thought they were talking about their work and not anything remotely related to what had just happened.

“Trust me, I could not have done it all by myself," he answered, his eyes not leaving the paper. "After all, you are the Lady of Winterfell.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if I rot some teeth with this one, but I'm not in a very happy place right now and needed to escape to these two.

They left their horses on the stables, having interrupted their ride due to the unexpected blizzard that attacked them as they were about to reach the edge of Wolfswood. Sansa dismissed both guards escorting them, announcing that she’d like a hot bath as soon as she went inside. Once the men had turned the corner and had left Jon and Sansa behind their sight, Sansa hugged Jon by the waist and he kissed her fervently, as if she could vanish the next instant.

That was all they had. Fleeting kisses and fleeting moments, when Alys changed places with Jocelyn, or Domeric with Cregan. Sansa spent her days aching for him, frustrated that they only had mere instants alone, enough for a hasty kiss, a short-lived hug or a brief stroke of fingers against flesh. And she spent her nights angry, irritated, twisting and turning in the sheets and blankets unable to sleep, thinking about how the sun had set yet another time and she still felt unsatisfied.

Alone.

The queen was still waiting for an answer to her missive, for as of yet Sansa had not one to offer. If the Lady of Winterfell could have it her way, then her response would have been sent about a moon ago. She had even thought about a couple of options that would make the union far easier in the eyes of the queen.

She had thought about asking the queen to give Dreadfort to Jon and make him a proper lord first. Sansa could argue that it was a fair reward for his loyalty to the kingdom and the North, that he had the same education of a lord’s heir, that he had proven more than once that he had their people’s love and respect…

That would make it easier, after all. She could just chose him amongst her suitors, as he fulfilled all the queen’s criteria for her husband.

Well, maybe that was not her most brilliant idea, after all. The last time she had married someone from Dreadfort she ended up more hurt than she thought possible. And maybe making Jon Lord of Dreadfort and then marrying him would help her get some closure on that part of her past.

Maybe not. Maybe she would feel safer sleeping next to a bastard. So Sansa would have to simply tell the queen she was marrying her bastard cousin and that she did not need the sovereign’s permission for that.

“Someone is coming,” Jon murmured, still panting, his forehead resting on hers.

Sansa took a few steps away from him, reluctantly. If she could, she would kiss him all day, stay in his arms forever. Although her heart skipped a few beats every time he grabbed her by the waist, pulled her to his chest and his soft lips touched hers, it also felt like home. Like something she had longed for all her life without being completely aware of it. Like pieces of broken glass finally fitting together to form a beautiful mosaic, a pattern that at last made sense.

“Good morning, m’lady,” Jocelyn greeted, and then did a small curtsy to Jon, hesitantly. Like most of the people at Winterfell, the girl still had not figured out what to call him exactly. “I’ve come to tell you someone is already taking care of your bath.”

“Oh, thank you, dear Jocelyn!” Sansa blurted, perhaps a little too loud. The mask. She had to put it on as soon as possible. She hooked her arm on the girl’s and almost dragged her inside. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

* * *

The water was getting too cold, now, even for a daughter of the North. They said the Dragon Queen could not burn, so maybe the Starks could not freeze. Maybe Jon could survive both. That was something worth asking him.

Well, Sansa was not going to risk a cold, so she stepped out of the tub, water dripping from her long hair and puddling at the stone floor. On her tiptoes, avoiding touching the cold surface as much as she could, she grabbed the towel Jocelyn had left by the fire and dried herself as quickly as possible.

She put on the warmest stockings she could find, and threw some random dress over herself. They were all new, for she had sewn them after she arrived at Castle Black and then Winterfell, and the ones that still awaited in her closet when she came back she had sent with a maid to be ragged and used to clean the floors. She could not bear to wear the same clothes she wore when they had tried to break her.

However, most of the new dresses had the Stark colours, and the Stark sigil, and she wore them more like a uniform, a way of reminding everyone to what house they owed their allegiances, than to look pretty. Sansa had no plans of leaving the castle or receiving anyone that afternoon, so any dress would do, really.

She grabbed her sewing basket, and although her hair had not fully dried yet, she made way to the study. She knew Jon would be there, immersed on his writings again, and although one of the girls, perhaps both, would not take long to follow her, at least Sansa could be with him. Sometimes just being in the same room was all the comfort she had.

“M’lady,” Alys called, jumping in front of her as soon as Sansa had climbed the last steps that led to the study. It was getting at least as boring as watching Jon’s duels. Perhaps a little more, since observing Jon fight still entertained her somewhat, as least aesthetically speaking. The same could not be said about the girls. Nor the guards, after all.

“I was thinking that maybe I could keep you company, if you don’t mind, m’lady,” the girl asked, her arms behind her back like a good soldier waiting inspection.

Sansa minded. She minded quite a lot. But over time she had lost all hope that she could send Alys or Jocelyn away in a gentle manner. And she was their lady, she could not ask them to leave any other way. Sansa had seen what being feared and hated by her servants had done to Cersei. Long ago she had decided that being loved by her people must be the best way to rule.

She agreed and opened the door with Alys at her heel.

Jon was sitting with his back to the window, the shy light that the snowstorm allowed to pass through the glass framing him in a strange silvery glow. His forehead rested on his palm and he seemed as if he was drowning in the ocean of information before him. He looked at Sansa as she entered the room and smiled, lowering his eyes as he saw Alys right behind her. It was silly, Sansa knew, but even those giddy glances were one of the most precious things she had and never failed to warm her heart. It reminded her that Jon cared for her, and that made Sansa feel like maybe the gods were finally paying part of the debt they had to her.

They sat all afternoon without saying more than a couple of words to each other. Moreover, it was Alys that took care of most of the talking part, asking Sansa if she thought the length of the shawl the girl was knitting was appropriate or if that colour went well with that other.

If Alys was not such a pain in her neck, Sansa might even enjoy her company from time to time. Not on the huge and unwelcome doses the girl forced her to endure. After all, Sansa needed someone she could trust, besides Jon, and that was the other reason she compelled herself to be as kind as possible to both girls.

“How careless of me…” Alys sighed, rummaging through her own basket. “I seem to have forgotten to bring the right needles.”

Calm and collected. Keep her poise.

Keep it, although she was grinning with joy on the inside.

Sansa was starting to think that maybe Alys was forgetting her things on purpose. Maybe the girl too grew tired of her job as a sentinel. Maybe she had some secret paramour of her own. Or maybe Alys had figured out where her loyalties truly lay and given her lady some time free of prying eyes.

However, Sansa decided she simply did not care about her reasons and grasped the opportunity all the same.

“You may go, Alys. I will be alright,” she assured, her eyes not leaving the collar of the tunic she was hemming. “I think my cousin can keep me company well enough.”

Sansa could not care if the girl stayed or left. It did not matter. Breathe in. Breathe out. Still her heart. Swallow it, even though it was beating in her throat and threatened to shoot out of her mouth.

“Thank you, m’lady! I’ll be back in a heartbeat, I swear!”

As soon as Alys had stormed out of the room, Jon had gotten up and promptly locked the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance but tomorrow I have to work so most probably there won't be a new chapter, although I can assure you that by Monday night (GMT) we'll have the 6th. To avoid being called a tease once again, here you have this chapter before I disappear for 24h. Thank you to those still there, you've been way too kind.

Sansa dashed to him, the tunic on her lap forgotten to the floor. Jon tangled is fingers in her still wet hair and pressed her to his chest, pushing her by the small of her back a little too roughly. Sansa yelped in surprised, and in return dug her nails on his scalp and kissed his lips, not wasting an instant more.

All day. Sansa had waited for Jon all day. She had thought all day about how his broad shoulders, the ones she was now holding to avoid falling on her back, kept so upright while riding. How his large hands, now caressing her hip and her hair, flexed and tensed the tendons of his forearm when he wanted his horse to turn a different way. The rise and fall of the chest against her own when he breathed hastily after they had decided to race against each other.

She would have to thank Alys later. She would give her some pretty dress, maybe one of her bracelets…

“Have you missed me?” Sansa asked, still panting when he left her mouth and settled for the curve of her neck.

“Can’t you tell?” Jon said, his low voice against her skin making her whole body reverberate with it. “Do you really think I was able to reason which lord is heir to which since you took your sit over there, looking way more pretty than you should with your hair still wet and clingy?”

Sansa’s heart clenched. She did not like to be pretty. She hated when someone called her that. She hated it. Her smile faded from her lips and her body went limp in his arms. She was not a pretty thing. She was Sansa Stark. She would not be toyed around. She would not be sold like livestock.

“Sansa?” Jon called, cupping her face. “Did I say something wrong?”

It was Jon. Just Jon, she told herself, looking in his darkened eyes, now full of concerned.

He did not mean it like that. He did not know it would hurt her.

“No, you couldn’t, even if you wanted,” she guaranteed, smiling weakly and caressing his furrowed brow. “I think we should stop talking, though. We’re wasting time.”

“Right as ever, Lady Stark.”

With a swift motion, Jon grabbed her by the waist and settled her down on the table. He kissed her again, his tongue caressing hers until she felt numb. Sansa run her hands through as much of his back as she could reach, not really paying much attention when Jon’s fingers started to explore under her skirt.

Her skin burned in every inch she could feel him against her and although her lungs might explode anytime soon if she did not part from him to breathe, Sansa could not care less. She would gladly die in that moment. At least she was as she wanted to be.

Jon was the one strong enough to pull away, gulping desperately for air as he hid his face on her shoulder. His fingers toyed with the hem of her stockings at her thigh, and he chuckled.

“Did you purposely put on the ugliest stockings you have?” he asked, lifting her skirt so he could have a proper look.

Sansa covered her face with one hand, her ears scorching with embarrassment, and slapped his shoulder with the other.

“What? They’re not the ugliest I’ve ever seen, but I’m sure they must be the worst you have,” he laughed.

“Seen a lot of lady’s stockings, haven’t you?” she scolded, her pride hurt. “At least they keep my legs warm, but I can always take them off, if they bother you so much. See?”

In a heartbeat she had thrown both stockings behind her shoulders and crossed her arms at her chest, pouting like she felt truly insulted.

“Oh, I think I rather prefer your legs like this,” Jon declared, smirking. “And perhaps we can think of some other way to keep them warm.”

He sat on the chair before her and Sansa saw the mischief in his eyes. Jon caught her ankle in his firm grip, and gently brushed his lips on her shin. Sansa furrowed her brow, confused. She was certain that was not how it was supposed to be. It still felt right, though, so she decided to let herself enjoy it all the same.

Jon kissed her knee, and as his beard scratched her skin goose-bumps rose all over her flesh. He looked at her, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Sansa nodded. She had no time to lose with hesitation. She buried her fingers in his dark tresses, encouraging him to continue.

His mouth returned to its impish path, kissing and biting and licking everything it could reach. Sansa let her head fall back when he found the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and she had to support herself on her elbows has she let herself fall back on the table.

“You smell too good,” Jon whispered.

“Lavender,” she answered, a hint of annoyance on her voice.

Could he just shut up? Anytime soon Alys would be back and maybe, just maybe, Sansa had to explain why on earth she had her skirts hiked up at her waist and Jon’s head between her legs.

Jon gently parted her folds and lowered his mouth until he found some sweet spot Sansa was not even aware was there. She slammed her fist on her mouth, muffling a high pitched moan that tried to escape. Jon took that as encouragement and sucked gently, eliciting another choked whimper.

“If you cannot keep quiet someone will come,” Jon warned, stopping for a moment and looking at her. “And if someone comes here I’ll have to stop.”

“Don’t stop!” Sansa cried, sitting straight again. “I’ll be quiet, I promise. Just don’t stop!”

Jon grinned and hid his face again between her legs. He licked and sucked as much as he pleased, and Sansa silenced her cries as best as she could.

She felt her body get tighter and tighter with something she did not recognise, something unfamiliar but that she already knew would lead to… Something? She tried to help Jon, or at least that was what she thought she would be doing by rotating her hips, but he dug his fingers on her thighs, a little ungentle this time, and forced her to keep still.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Fuck!” Sansa mouthed, but Jon remained unbothered, not stopping.

“M’lady?” Alys called, from outside the door. “Is everything all right, m’lady?”

Sansa heard her too far away, for her head was spinning and she felt too dizzy to answer the girl. With one particular stroke of Jon’s tongue she arched her back, unable to stand it any longer. She whimpered his name, over and over, as she felt something inside her release itself, her whole body trembling with pleasure, with the sweetest feeling in the world.

“M’lady?”

Sansa tried to control her breathing, now too aware of her wrinkled skirts and her scandalously opened legs, Jon still between them.

“Just a minute, Alys,” Jon answered, standing up and helping Sansa compose herself. “My cousin and I needed to discuss some household matters in private, I am sorry.”

As soon as Sansa had her stockings on again and was sitting on her stool, with the tunic in her hands, Jon unlocked the door and opened it for the girl.

Poor thing, she looked genuinely worried.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, m’lady,” she apologised. “I just thought that you might be in danger…”

“It was nothing, Alys,” Sansa said, her Lady of Winterfell mask carefully put on again. “I am sorry we worried you without motive, though.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. Here you go.

Ghost was the only one paying attention to the men sparring below, his tremendous paws propped on the stone and his tail wagging like a whip. Alys took a few steps back, terrified. She did not thrust the animal one bit, maybe because it was the largest… Wolf? Dog? Anyway, the largest beast of that type she had seen in her life. When the other ones of the pack had run through the courtyard they were no bigger than a normal dog, after all.

Sansa knew that if Jon or she took Ghost with them more often her chances of being alone would increase. But the direwolf still looked too human to her, and she felt like he could understand them too well.

Jon stood by her, not so wrapped up in his cloak as Sansa was in hers. Maybe he was more of a Stark after all, at least more than her.

She put her hand on the balustrade, almost touching Jon’s elbow. Sansa could feel the warmth of his body, right beside her, although she was not touching him. Yet.

“I think Alys is far enough,” Jon said, grabbing her gloved hand and intertwining their fingers. “And I doubt the men on the courtyard can see us”.

“I thought watching you train was the dullest thing in the world-” Sansa told him, smiling.

“You think watching me is dull?” Jon asked, trying to fake a hurt expression.

“I was not finished!” Sansa retorted, annoyed. “I thought it was, but as it turns out it is even duller if it is not you the one sparring.”

“So you think I am dull, after all.”

Sansa sighed and let her shoulders drop, defeated.

“I said watching you fight is dull. Watching you is dull. Just watching you all day is dull,” she added, her words stumbling upon themselves. “But it is worst when you are not even here. That is what I was trying to say.”

“For someone so clever, sometimes you are terrible at explaining yourself, you know that?” Jon said, caressing her fingers.

“It is all your fault, actually,” Sansa whispered, as she decided she needed to be totally honest if she wanted Jon to understand what she was trying to tell him. “My head seems unwilling to function properly when you are around.”

“That could present a problem, Lady Stark, since you have the biggest region in the kingdom to run,” he joked, smirking. “Maybe I should just step back, and leave you to it. I do not want to cause your land any harm.”

She grabbed his elbow and forced him to face her. Her heart leapt to her throat, as a thousand alarms rang inside her skull.

“No. No, Jon,” she said, frowning. “I could not bare doing all this without you.”

Jon cupped her cheek, a wide smile lighting up his face and making his eyes almost disappear.

“I know. I know that,” he assured her. “I couldn’t stay away either.”

Alys cleared out her throat, and the moment was lost.

Jon leaned on the balustrade, and Sansa crossed her arms.

“I know I should be more sensible, but I can’t,” he said, his voice no louder than a murmur. “If it was up to just me, we’d have a family. If you wanted to, that is. I’d marry you first, of course. You must know I love you, after all, and the world is already full of bastards, we don’t need more. Then a baby, two, as many as you like.”

Sansa’s heart stopped beating and she froze, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“I’d wake up next to you every day, and scare away all the nightmares I know you still have. If you wanted it,” he added. “But if you want all this with a proper lord, not some bastard who didn’t even know his own mother, then I’ll go.”

She did not want a lord. Jon was far better than any of them, than any Holt, Ironsmith, Burley, Ashwood, Harclay, Crowl or Flint. He was better than anyone.

She wanted him. She wanted everything he was offering her and more. She wanted to take his hand and caress his back without a girl having to clear her throat to warn her she was stepping over the mark. She wanted him to be treated and respected not just as a war hero, but as Lord of Winterfell, sitting at her side.

She leaned on the stone too, sighing.

Somethings just could not be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! It was really nice having you around these days. Thanks!


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